Deconstructing Daryl
by charmedsilence
Summary: A series of drabbles featuring everyone's favorite dude with the bow and arrow.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I'm hoping to make a series of drabbles featuring Daryl and moments/events/people that are important to him and his growth. And yes, I suppose I am a Daryl/Carol shipper.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

_**Deconstructing Daryl**_

_**Part 1: The Scarf**_

Death and loss and pain were nothing new to Daryl. He'd suffered. He'd watched others suffer. And through it all had acquired a hard veneer. Daryl didn't say much. But he watched and he listened and he learned. And because of that, Daryl survived; he survived the abuse he suffered at home and he survived the walkers.

Now death and loss and pain were almost daily occurrences. A string of days without tragedy or just a single one, _both_ were like miracles, and he treasured them all, kept them somewhere deep in his mind, each one a jewel to take out and admire when he was alone and still. But a string of days like that always threatened to dull the group's reflexes, lull them into sleep, make them think that maybe everything would be all right.

But nothing could ever be all right in their world. Nothing would ever be all right again, not like it was, not ever.

~~~~0000~~~~

He kept her scarf, that ridiculous thing she'd worn around her head that made her look like a scrawny, female Aladdin. When he saw it on the floor, dull, almost blending in, he'd scooped it up, and desperate grief hit him hard.

She was dead. There were no happy endings. That scrap of material, dropped in haste, tugged off by grasping hands, could only mean one thing.

And he lived with that 'knowledge', accepted Carol's end, like he had accepted all the others, like _she _had accepted Sophia's. What choice was there? Life was all about ends now, ends and so few beginnings.

Placing that cherokee rose on her grave gave him some measure of closure, gave her some dignity in death. And the scarf, wedged inside his pocket, somehow reassuring, was a perpetual reminder of a woman, once timid and fragile, but strong and fierce in the end.

When Daryl found her knife in some dead walker, he knew that she'd gone down fighting, the new Carol, the one he had been slowly, inexorably, falling for. The knowledge of her death crashed into him again, knocking him down and under. He could not move from that spot in the corridor, Carol's knife in his hand.

Then he heard the door. Something was on the other side making it quiver. The noise was persistent, as if there were intelligence behind it. Daryl dared to hope and hope was a dangerous thing. But for once it was rewarded. Carol was on the other side of that steel slab, exhausted, dehydrated but alive.

And Daryl had never felt a joy so pure. And he wondered, maybe, if there could be a future.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Deconstructing Daryl**_

_**Part 2: Lil' Ass Kicker**_

A baby in this fucked up world, empty of people and full of walkers, the past gone, irretrievable now, violence and death everywhere, was vulnerable, incongruous and the best thing that could have happened to the group. She gave them something to rally around, something untainted and pure.

Daryl had never had anything to do with babies. Oh, he'd seen plenty around, pushed in strollers by mothers far too young or newest in a brood of far too many, slung like a sack of potatoes over a shoulder, just another mouth to feed. But holding one was a new experience and somehow he took to it like a squirrel took to climbing.

The newborn felt good in his arms, warm and solid and so full of life. She was tough. That was obvious. She ate with abandon and slept like a rock and in between squawked and wriggled and cooed and made everyone smile. Sure, she was an added responsibility and taking care of her would entail risks. Everyone, every single one of them, was willing to take those risks on. Watching her thrive would be all the reward they needed.

Cradled against his chest, sculpted arms surrounding her, keeping her safe, Daryl named her Lil' Ass Kicker. It was crude, perhaps, but fitting and would do until her brother or father chose a real name.

In this messed up, upside down world where things made a terrible kind of sense, the baby was their new anchor. She was Lori's still, and Rick's and Carl's. But she belonged to all of them. And Daryl would die if he had to, so that she could live.


	3. Chapter 3

**Deconstructing Daryl**

**Part 3: The Beginning**

Daryl almost welcomed it. His body sang along with the chaos that built, slowly at first, then with alarming speed. Life was simple now; kill, hunt, survive.

He'd always been an outsider, the quiet one who watched as others lived. It was only in the woods that surrounded his childhood home he had felt the exaltation of being alive. He fit there with the trees and the leaves, the rot and the new life, the animals and the birds. They accepted him as just another creature, sometimes wandering dreamily along worn paths, sometimes walking with dread purpose, bow and arrow in hand, dinner reflected in his green eyes.

His life was a series of jobs, a series of disappointments, and abandonment after abandonment. Nothing was steady but nature. He could depend on _that_, at least, return to it when the need for peace grew too strong to ignore.

The world ended. And suddenly it was Daryl's time. He was still an outsider, in the beginning at least. But his skills were needed and respected and he knew that in time and if he showed other survivors the man he was beneath the cruel words and the feigned disinterest, he might become a part of something worthwhile.

For Daryl, the end was the beginning. He'd been reborn. He was not the only one.


End file.
